


Just Begun

by classicalreader313



Series: Long Walk Week 2020 [1]
Category: The Long Walk - Richard Bachman
Genre: Character Death, Gen, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:34:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23948491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/classicalreader313/pseuds/classicalreader313
Summary: "He knew he couldn’t make it. Knew he would die on this road, and at home his siblings would be crowding around the television set watching, and they would see him die. Knew he would buy a ticket, and no musketeer in the world could keep a bullet from crashing through his skull."Baker's death.
Relationships: Art Baker & Abraham, Art Baker & Ray Garraty
Series: Long Walk Week 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1726735
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7
Collections: Long Walk Week 2020





	Just Begun

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! This is a fic that I wrote back in 2013 and thought I would post again for the first day of Long Walk week! This fic deals with Baker's final moments on the road, and includes his reflections on his past and his time on the Walk. I hope you enjoy!

And now the blood was on his hands, his face, his neck, and had soaked through the cheap fabric of his striped shirt, the one his mother had laid out so lovingly ages ago. Or had it only been a few days? No, it couldn’t have been. Ages ago… He was an old man now, hobbling along. Zigging and zagging, like a beggar looking for change. Slanting towards the crowd-  _ please help me I just want to sit down sit down and sleep and maybe I don’t really want to die at all- _ and then jerking away. 

And Baker realized he was disgusting, like the kids used to say at school. He was disgusting and stupid and pathetic and worthless. Worthless and weird and foolish and soon he would just be blood and brains splattered on the road and he might not get that lead-lined coffin after all. He wiped the blood from his face and tried to think back- so long ago- to when he was just Art Baker, not number 3, walking himself to death on this long, scary road. Back to watching his uncle build coffins, fit perfectly and made of smooth wood. He would peer into them and imagine what it would be like to sleep centuries away inside. But now he couldn’t look in, not even in these half asleep dreams. Because when he did, it was the face of Olson, hair graying, as if he had been walking for years, of Abraham, his blind eyes turned up in the cold rain, of Collie Parker, obscenities dying on his cold lips. And then, it was Baker’s own face, sunken and bloody and tired. And he knew he wasn’t that different from them.

He tore away from the vision, scrambling for another loose thread in the jumbled fray of his mind. 

He thought of his mother, sitting in a rocking chair, heavy with child. She had had that same peaceful smile until the baby came out dead and she had screamed and cried and everyone else had cried but Baker hadn’t cried. How could he cry when it was hard enough to get by already? When already he and his siblings fell asleep hungry? But his mother cried and his father yelled and he felt heartless and his Aunt Hattie sat in an armchair, a small, sleepy smile on her face. Baker went to bed that night thinking that if anyone in their family deserved to die, it was him. And he hadn’t been afraid. He hadn’t, because for him death was ordinary, like taxes, and potato soup, and growling stomachs in the dark of night. But now he was here, and if he hadn’t been terrified when Curley bought it- vanishing in a hammer smash of blood- he sure as hell was now. Being carried off the road in a bag. Shipped back home and buried in the backyard like the dog they had when he was nine and still not afraid to die…

Baker was ripped from his thoughts as he plunged towards the pavement. He could feel fresh blood on his face, but ignored it, as he felt himself sinking into every crack in the surprisingly soft pavement. He could see a hand reach out to him, and for a moment he thought he was dead. But then the hand retracted and the soldiers kept giving warnings and he knew his time was not yet up.

And so Baker got to his feet. Because now he was afraid to die- afraid of the gunshots, the powerlessness, the darkness- and even though he still deserved to die, that didn’t mean he wanted to. 

So he kept walking blindly on, knowing he wouldn’t last much longer. The inevitable was startlingly real now, unbelievably close. And now, more than ever, he was terrified. 

Because he knew he couldn’t make it. Knew he would die on this road, and at home his siblings would be crowding around the television set watching, and they would see him die.

Knew he would buy a ticket, and no musketeer in the world could keep a bullet from crashing through his skull.

And again he wondered why he was there, wondered what he was thinking. But of course he knew. He had wanted to die. Wanted to ever since that night so long ago, with the screaming, the crying. Or maybe before?

Baker didn’t want to think about it. He just knew he wanted to die. He wanted to, but he was too scared. Too scared… he didn’t know how to die. But that was the type of fear that gnawed in his stomach in the middle of the night, not the type that shrouded around him, chilling him, ever present. Not like this.

He had wanted to die, but he didn’t know how. So he chose the Long Walk. At the time, he had had handy excuses for signing up. “We could really use the money. Anyways, if I die, one less mouth to feed.” But really, he just wanted to die, to come to an end.

Five days of torture, then a bullet through the head. So not only was he suicidal, but he was a fucking idiot.

The blood had dried on his face and neck, and now fresh blood was falling. Painting him. An angel painted in blood…

He heard a louder cheer go through the crowd and was convinced it was for him. Convinced that the carbines were zeroing in and that his time was done.

But no… the guns didn’t go off, and through his foggy, old man’s eyes, Baker could see a sign ahead. Boston.

Here he would die.

He would give up walking just outside the walking city.

Fitting.

So through the rain, he looked for Garraty, his eyes dragging up and down the empty road. Well, mostly empty. There were faint walking shapes, weaving deftly among the living. What was left of them anyways.

Garraty looked at him as he neared, seeming tired and thoroughly done in. But everyone did. He could win this thing yet.

Then Baker’s mouth was open, and he couldn’t stop the desperate tone in his voice. “Garraty? Are we in?”

No sign of understanding. 

“In, are we in?” Baker himself barely knew what it meant, but somehow, he needed to know. “Garraty, please.”

An affirmative reply. Garraty still didn’t seem to know what he meant, but his face was softening, his eyes less foggy. He knew what was coming.

“I’m going to die now, Garraty.”

“All right.”

Now one of the ghosts looked at him, and he saw it was Abraham, smiling. Baker felt a chill. None of the others seemed to notice him, reminding him he wasn’t dead yet. But he was close.

“If you win, will you do something for me?” he asked, looking back to Garraty. “I’m scairt to ask anyone else.” He gestured to Abraham and who looked to be Olson, no longer scared, and Parker and Barkovitch and Harkness. 

Garraty looked frightened, and Baker wondered how desperate he sounded and shame crawled up his back. What a funny thing to worry about when you’re dying…

“Anything,” came the other boy’s response.

Baker laid a hand on Garraty’s shoulder, and a shudder went though the other boy. Was he crying? For him? 

It almost made Baker want to cry too. That’s probably what was happening at home. They were realizing he was done. They were watching him now and sobbing. Or maybe they were mad at him… Maybe he should smile, or wave. But no, that would just make it worse. 

Leaning towards Garraty’s ear, Baker said, “Lead-lined.”

He could hear Ray let out a sob, then say, “Walk a little longer.” Another shaky intake of breathe. “Walk a little longer, Art.”

“No-” his voice was weak, defeated. “I can’t.”

“All right,” Garraty answered, trying to keep his voice level and failing. Baker had asked him about the blood and his voice had done that same thing. He had been disgusted, disgusted with Baker, and Baker had been scared and ashamed, the tears mixing with the slick blood.

Now it was pity. 

Pity? 

No, not pity. Maybe sadness. 

“Maybe I’ll see you, man,” Baker voiced quietly. Too many maybes, he thought, wiping blood from his face. 

He could see Garraty fold in on himself, sobbing. He could see his mother in the back of his mind, hands flying to her face. In that moment, he wanted to comfort them both, though his mother was thousands of miles away- and if he couldn’t make it to Boston, he sure as hell couldn’t get to Louisiana- and Garraty looked beyond help. Anyways, it wasn’t like a dead man could provide much comfort. 

“Don’t watch ‘em do it,” Baker added. “Promise me that too.”

He wished he had something wise to say. Like Scramm. Scramm and wise were not often correlated, but in his last moments he was like an old, wise man, saying so long instead of goodbye and going with dignity. 

Not like an old dog, ready to roll over dead, not like Baker. 

He could see Garraty nod, struggle with words, then remain silent.

“Thanks. You’ve been my friend, Garraty,” he said. He tried to smile, but probably looked like a looming skull, teeth bared devilishly. Baker hoped not. 

He felt compelled to add, “Say goodbye to the musketeers for me,” but really, the only one left besides Garraty was McVries. He wondered if McVries would care when he bought it or if, to Pete, he was already dead.

Instead he stuck his hand out and could feel Garraty taking it in both his hands, shaking it. “Another time, another place.” He could hear the sobs ripping from Garraty as he dropped back. 

He was warned. It was his second warning. 

Wiping his face one more time and looking out over the road- last look at the land of the living- he sat down cross legged on the pavement. He let his head hang back, the cold rain soaking his face. Third warning. It was almost over. Soon he could sleep. Rest his feet.

A soldier jumped over the side of the halftrack. Baker could hear the shoes against the wet pavement, but he didn’t look. He let out a sharp, surprised breath as the cold metal of the gun was pressed to his head. 

He wondered what it would feel like, the bullet through his head- would it hurt? - and the dying, the coming to an end. No more Art Baker.

Then there was a tremendous blast of noise and all faded to dark.

And when he reached up to wipe his face again, he knew he was dead because there was no more blood and the ache in his feet had dulled. Actually it had disappeared altogether. 

And when everything came back into focus, he was back at the starting post, and the sun felt warm against his cold skin. And he knew he was dead, but he had no time to dwell on it, because he no longer hurt, was no longer bleeding, and that fear was gone and so was the crawling sadness in his gut. 

And up ahead he could see the other Walkers, just backs now, but easy to catch up to. Easy in his newfound strength. Baker felt like he could walk to Florida. Like the first day of the walk, but here there would be no warnings, no gunshots, and no death in store for them. 

Ahead, he could see Abraham- easily recognizable from his height and red hair- turn and beckon for him to come and join them. In front of him he could see Olson, Parker, Pearson. They were carefree- no aches and pains hindered their steps. Baker smiled, stepping over the starting line, hurrying to meet them. 

Maybe Scramm was right. The real Walk had just begun.

  
  



End file.
